


Unrequited

by Rabid1st



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid1st/pseuds/Rabid1st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know what it's like. It's like when you fancy someone and they don't even know you exist.” - The Doctor</p><p>This fic was written after Last of the Timelords in S3, but harks back to when Jack and Rose were traveling with Nine. It is a sort of a light and humorous response to Goldy_Dollar's challenge to have Rose take the lead in a sexual encounter. She doesn't QUITE take the lead, but the Doctor is appropriately clueless and misunderstands human interactions. Once again I look at reasons why the Doctor might not act on his feelings for Rose and there are some interesting sexual differences between species.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unrequited

UNREQUITED  
A Doctor Who Crack!Fic  
by Rabid1st  
Nine/Rose  
Rating: Mature(for adult situation and language)  
Beta Babes: Keswindhover and Gina  
Summary: “I know what it's like. It's like when you fancy someone and they don't even know you exist.” - The Doctor

This is sort of a light and humorous response to goldy_dollar's challenge to have Rose take the lead in a sexual encounter. She doesn't QUITE take the lead here but the Doctor is appropriately clueless.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I only use them to act out my smutty fantasies. Wait, did I say that out loud?

 

Arms crossed at his chest, legs crossed at the ankle, the Doctor slouched wearily against a subtly creaking door frame. He hurt all over. He also felt a little sick. A cold sloshing churned in his stomach, reminding him of his schoolboy days when he'd practically lived in a state of emotional upheaval. Bile stung the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, feeling every one of his 900 plus years. Every breath he drew sent a lashing pain through his right side. Thankfully, respiratory bypass meant he didn't have to draw too many breaths. Holding the wincing to a minimum and biting back any complaint, he cast his gaze around the room.

The relentlessly cheerful ambiance inspired a grimace. The kitchen he was standing in sparkled. No. It gleamed, its steel appliances bathed in golden light. As often happened in late spring, a grim and drizzling morning had developed into a lovely day. A day for picnics in the park. A day for young lovers. Warm sunbeams teased striking colors from the flowers beyond the kitchen window and streamed into the room past ruffly yellow curtains. On the stove, a hen-shaped kettle simmered, sending up a genie of steam.

It was a struggle not to snort in derision. He hated the sun for shining. It should be bucketing rain out, he thought, as he turned his attention to Rose. Seeing her though, he couldn't help smiling, just a little. It was nothing more than an involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth. It happened reflexively as he watched her remove the kettle from its burner. He loved watching her putter about. Nobody, seeing her in the morning light, would have guessed at the grueling night they'd had. She had a youthful vitality and the sun at her back gifted her with a dazzling aura. The Doctor berated himself for noticing. He should leave. He should just sod off. So long and thanks for all the fish, as the dolphins put it.

Rose needed to get on with her life. She wasn't a lost girl anymore. She'd found her place. She seemed right at home in suburbia, a realization that hit him low in the gut. He didn't want to think of her growing up and away from him. He couldn't bear to think of her content in domesticity, caring for a husband and children. Surrounded by poultry. He gave the room another glowering appraisal. Disgustingly cozy, the place was overrun with chickens. Here a rooster. There a trio of hens. Rhode Island Reds cavorted on cups and plates and canisters and potholders. Yellow chicks gamboled about on the wallpaper, the tattered remains of a tablecloth and on matching hand towels.

Rose, noting the direction of his gaze, said, “Can't you hear them all? Clucking away? It'd drive me mad.”

His mood lifted a little. She could read his expressions better than anyone. He beamed tightly, lips pressed together as he elevated his chin a bit to acknowledge her comment. He didn't speak. Couldn't speak, truthfully, for fear of giving himself away. He loved her. He loved this human child. And she didn't even know he existed. Not as a man. As a friend, perhaps. As a teacher and a cosmic taxi driver, yes. But not as a man. He'd tried to tell her, show her. But he couldn't seem to break free of his own inhibitions. Seven centuries of asexuality had seriously gummed up the gears on his moves. Trying to gain Rose's attention was like hearing a foreign language you might once have known. He could almost grasp a sense of what she wanted from him. But their signals always got crossed before anything could happen.

And now, it was too late. He didn't want to believe it. The realization he'd lost her hadn't completely sunk in, yet. He hadn't reconciled himself to it.

Rose started tea steeping in two rooster decorated cups. Then, she splashed the rest of the boiling water over a knife, pliers, needle and several lengths of thread, sterilizing the lot. Using one of the kitschy towels, she mopped up the smears and splatters of blood on the tile and tabletop. No one would care if they left a mess. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder toward the living room where Mrs. Daphne Lowell, age 57, twice-divorced, chicken-fancier and owner of the cheery kitchen, lay dead on the floor. Poor thing. She hadn’t been quick enough on her feet.

Nor had Jack. The Doctor shifted so his cold gaze could pierce the Captain's heart. Not that there was any hope Jack would notice a piercing gaze. He looked oddly content, propped precariously in a dinette chair. But looks were deceiving. The chair's arms and its proximity to the wall were the only things keeping him upright. Without support, he would crumple to the floor in a heap. Even with it, he sagged drunkenly, pitching alternatively forward and back. Rose had spent the last ten minutes hovering over him, her fingers clasping his wrist for a pulse or stroking along his cheek, soothing him.

“We should get him upstairs. Into a bed,” she said, breaking into the Doctor's reverie.

He shook his head. “Who says there's a bed up there?” he challenged, gruffly. He didn't want to explain that his own injury made it next to impossible to navigate a flight of stairs while carrying Jack. Didn't want her fussing, he told himself.

“Stands to reason. She had to sleep somewhere. And he won't be able to balance for long in this chair. He'll take a tumble any minute now. Go on, get his shoulders. I'll help.”

Pushing away from the door frame, the Doctor crossed to the dinette table to stare down at his companions. “Moving on. Things to do,” he said brusquely. “Can't waste time tromping up and down stairs, searching for hypothetical beds.” He made it seem as if the house were a labyrinth-style mansion instead of a simple one-up. “He can sleep in there,” nodding toward the living room, he added, “on the sofa.”

“Fine.” Rose said, shortly. “There's no need to be tetchy about it.”

“I'm not tetchy.”

Rose sniffed. “He did save my life.”

Since he was already painfully aware of this, the Doctor gritted his teeth against the all too familiar sloshing in his stomach. “And I didn't. I was blindsided. Is that what you're saying?”

“No,” Rose said, irritably. “Of course not. But you might have told us how dangerous...” closing her lips over the rest of her remark, she gave her head a firm shake, and then said, “It doesn't matter.”

But it did. It mattered a great deal to her. And to him. He'd miscalculated his own skills and nearly cost Rose her life. If Jack hadn't been there... But he had. He'd taken the full brunt of the Martyaxwar’s lash, leaping in front of Rose to shield her. His bare arm and chest gave grim evidence of how much he was willing to sacrifice for her. And the Doctor was nothing but grateful to him. But it hurt to know Jack was the one she would turn to now. Even if it was right that she should.

Jack's quick thinking, accompanied as it was by loud and prodigious swearing, had distracted the monster just long enough for the Doctor to roll free of its crushing jaws and Rose had landed a killing blow to the Martyaxwar’s neck. It should have been a triumphant moment. Their coordinated efforts had saved the planet, spared countless lives. But as he stood there, embarrassed and in mounting agony, watching Rose and Jack bond, the Doctor hadn't felt the least bit like celebrating.

Never-the-less, they had been fortunate. It was rare indeed to dispatch a Martyaxwar so efficiently. People generally died on a Martyaxwar hunt. Jack would have died without the Doctor's quick assistance and Rose's steely nerves. As it was, he would live, but his injuries were serious. He would need rest and loving care. Something Rose seemed intent on giving him. It was an old, old story: hurt and comfort led to union.

Jack's right side had been peppered with stingers. Removing them before they melted into toxic goo had been bloody and immediate work. There'd been no time to go back to the TARDIS. And calling an ambulance had been out of the question. Even if they'd been willing to submit the bodies of Mrs. Lowell and the Martyaxwar into evidence, it would have taken too long to explain Jack's injuries to a paramedic. The Captain would have died screaming while the appropriate authorities dithered. So, as he generally did in a crisis, the Doctor took charge.

After sedating Jack with two of Mrs. Lowell's arthritis pills, washed down with about half a liter of her best port, he'd steered everyone into the kitchen and sent Rose scurrying to fetch makeshift surgical instruments. She'd balked for a moment when he'd started explaining how to use the needle-nosed pliers and the sharp point of a knife to remove the stingers, but soon saw the wisdom of his plan. There'd been no hope she could have restrained Jack during the operation. Muttering apologies, she'd set to work, wrenching and digging out all thirty-two of the finger-length barbs.

To her credit, Rose's hands had remained relatively steady throughout the procedure. She'd teared up a little, and was sick afterward, but never faltered. To his credit, Jack had neither screamed nor thrashed. But his grunts and whimpers had grown more inhuman, eventually becoming nothing more than a high-pitched whine of despair. Mercifully, he'd passed out midway through the process. He'd come around after that in sporadic jerks and spasms, but he didn't completely surface again until Rose had finished bandaging his wounds. As she'd swathed him in strips ripped from the tablecloth, he'd opened his eyes.

That was when he'd told Rose he loved her. And she'd returned the favor. “I love you, too, Jack,” she'd said, smiling down on him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to let those hateful words loose from her tongue.

She loved Captain Jack Harkness. So that was it. Time to go. He thought of Jo Grant and her 'younger version' and Rose's own words, 'He's like you but with dating and dancing.' He thought of Tegan, sick of him and his lifestyle. This was the way it always ended. He'd been a fool to think, to hope, it would be different this time.

“Let me get under his arm,” Rose said, pressing along the Doctor's body and returning his wandering attention to the present.

Her proximity set off a dozen alarm bells in his skull, but he had nowhere to go. He couldn't move away without dropping Jack. There was nothing to do but endure the flash-fire of sensory input until his higher brain function kicked in and the inevitable splashes of jealousy and shame doused the flames. He should be used to his erratic hormones by now, but sexual desire still caught him off guard. It felt unnatural to him. Time Lords craved power, not someone's touch.

Mixed emotions made his tone harsh. “Let go. I can manage better on my own.”

“He can barely walk,” she argued. “And I see you wincing. Don't think I'm not tending to you in a minute.”

“I won't have you fussing,” he warned, though he was oddly pleased she'd noticed his discomfort.

“I have seen roses dama...dramasked...and white,” Jack breathed, his glassy gaze fixed on Rose as she gingerly wrapped her arms around him, careful to avoid his injuries. “Hair like...gold...the sun. My mistress is so...also...very like the sun. So shiny.” Letting his head loll, he brought his mouth very close to her ear. “You are a very pretty girl, Miss Tyler,” he drawled with drunken candor. “I hope you don't mind me saying.”

Rose blushed and cast a quick glance at the Doctor as she snorted, “Jack, you're a pin cushion. Don't you ever stop prowling?”

“Never. Ever. Ever,” he slurred, as they edged him across the tiny foyer. They had to maneuver around the fallen Martyaxwar, stepping carefully across its sprawling form. The tail twitched reflexively as Jack stumbled over it. He nearly fell and cried out when they caught him. Then, eyes closed, he called, “Rose? Rose?” as if she'd deserted him.

“Right here, Jack,” she said.

“Don't wander off...okay?”

“Not a chance.”

“Such a pretty name. Pretty girl. We should name all of our children Rose. Even the boys. Rose, Jr. Builds character. Rose?”

“Still here.”

“When I'm better...when I'm well...I'm going to take you to the Legolium Trinus. We'll ditch your friend and use my hopper. As soon as...my head clears,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, all right.”

“We'll make mad love under the crimson sky...oh, you'll adore it...the grass smells like apples. Apples! That'll make you forget that stuffy old Time Lord.”

“Hello? Standing right here,” the Doctor complained.

"Still stuffy," Jack told him.

“He's raving,” Rose grunted, as they reached the couch. Jack's weight had become too much for her. Ducking and slithering backward, she stumbled into the Doctor, as they let Jack collapse onto the sofa. Focusing on their fallen companion, Rose said, “You just get better and we'll go wherever you like."

And there it was, the Doctor thought, out in the open. Rose and Jack. Jack and Rose. Of course, he'd suspected for some time it would end this way. From the moment Mickey showed up in Cardiff, he'd known. Rose needed more than alien worlds and grand adventures. She needed physical fulfillment. And, though he'd made himself available, more than once, she wasn't looking to him for it. She didn't even consider him capable.

'Show her his moves?' He'd been doing nothing else but showing her. So, he made one mistake? Or two or three? He'd rescued her from untold perils. He'd taken her to her parent's wedding and to the end of the Earth. Her wish was his command. Like he'd told her, he could do anything. All she needed to do was ask. They'd walked along in the moonlight, arm-in-arm under the frozen, cresting waves of Woman Wept. Every guidebook, but one, hailed it as the most romantic spot in the Kellisepedllion Arm of the Milky Way.

He'd thought there, in the blue moon's glow, in the shadow of hundred foot waves, she might have, at least, tried to kiss him. He'd given her every opportunity. But she hadn't. Chilled to the bone, they'd returned to the TARDIS and she'd bounced off to find Jack, who'd been sidelined by a mysterious hangover. All right, not so very mysterious from the Doctor's perspective, but only because he knew the effects of Venusian Whiskey and Jack didn't.

Rose's infatuation made perfect sense, of course. Jack Harkness, if that was even his real name, embodied everything she craved in a mate. A self-made adventurer, he was dashing and brave, charming and well-traveled. Never mind his wandering eye. He was handy. Handsome. Human. He was human. So was Rose. This was it, then. Say goodbye and good luck and move on.

“I’ll go,” the Doctor heard himself saying, but wasn't completely sure anyone else heard him. He cleared his throat. “I want to run a cellular comparison scan on those saliva samples. Make sure we are dealing with an isolated Martyaxwar. They generally hunt alone. But this is their nesting season. We don’t want another one popping up once we've gone.”

Rose nodded, barely listening. Leaning over, she squeezed Jack's hand as her fingers lightly caressed his brow. “You're going to be all right,” she murmured, before lifting her eyes to the Doctor to whisper, “He's burning up.”

“It's the poison. Some of it was bound to enter his system. A few days rest will see him right.”

“Slipped me something,” Jack accused, fixing a glare on the Doctor. "Sneaky bastard." The glint in his eyes faded as he went on, “Could have just asked. I know, I know about you and your--traveling machine. You want... You want to get her all alo--alone, all to yoursssself--sssneaky..." Rose's index finger touched his lips to shush his slurring. Drifting off into slumber, he smiled, humming slightly as he snuggled into the sofa, “Always knew....” His voice trailed away into a snore and the Doctor and Rose exchanged embarrassed glances, both of them feeling awkwardly exposed.

“I'll just...fetch the TARDIS,” the Doctor said, wondering why his legs would not move. Twisting at the waist, he pointed toward the door. “You'll be okay here? While I...go?”

Rose surged to her feet, catching at his elbow, as fiercely as if he were actually leaving, which he most certainly was not. “Oh, no you don't. You aren't going anywhere until I've seen those ribs.”

“But Rose,” he whined, “I've got scanning to do.”

“Later. Into the kitchen,” she ordered, giving his shoulder a shove to propel him in the right direction. Secretly pleased she'd taken an interest in him at last, he went willingly, despite a show of sulking reluctance. When they reached the dinette table, she patted a chair back and said, “Here we are, then. Get your kit off and have a seat.”

“It's just a little cut and bruise.”

“Then, you won't mind me checking,” she countered. He stood there, defiantly, until she sighed, “Look, I'm not going to hurt you, am I?” A pink sliver of tongue appeared briefly at the corner of her flashing smile. “Are you shy?” Once again, he noted how the sunlight graced her, catching high tones in her hair and shimmering. She was beautiful in this light. Well, always, but particularly in this light. She indicated the chair again. “Oh, come on. Don't be such a coward.”

He pulled a face, rolling his eyes, but obediently began to undress. He didn't get far. As he reached up to remove his jacket, the swing of his arm ignited a fire in his side, making him grunt and flinch away from the pain. Rose materialized beside him, almost as if she'd transmatted across the kitchen. She touched him, setting his blood simmering. Running her hands up his arms and across his chest, she eased under his jacket. Her warmth soaked through his clothing and into his skin as she, very carefully, peeled the leather jacket out to his shoulders, and over them. It slid down his arms to the floor. He let it fall. Undressing him brought her too close. They were hip to hip, belly to belly, as if about to dance. His hands went to her waist and he willed her to look up.

'Look at me. Kiss me,' he thought, reaching for the edge of her subconscious. 'Don't you feel it? Don't you want to?'

Apparently, she didn't. She concentrated on his blood soaked right side, gently probing his injury. The resultant pain momentarily blinded him. Rose, and everything else, winked out of existence.

“Doctor?” Her voice spoke out of the white heat dazzling his vision. “Here, sit down.” She guided him to a chair and helped him settle. “Hands above your head. High as you can.”

As the rushing in his ears subsided, he blinked Rose into focus. She was practically sitting in his lap. He stared stupidly at her for a moment until he realized what she wanted. She was reaching for his jumper hem. “We don't need it off,” he protested, one hand slapping fretfully at her fingers, shooing them away. 

"Yes, we do!"

“I can just lift it," he said. The last word of this protest came out on a squeak because Rose had straddled his knee. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she'd mounted him, her tiny skirt riding up as she did. She was so warm there, between her legs. Warm and damp with...sweat, he imagined, exertion. She'd been working hard, wrestling, first Jack, and now him. And she was wearing winter tights. But there was something familiar about this slickness.

Before he could quite work it out, Rose took charge. She seized his jumper near the bottom, gathering wool into her fists. He sucked in his gut, curling away from her touch, and bucked his knee, shifting her weight. Rather than move away, she grabbed at him, gripping his arms. Her nails curled straight through his jumper sleeves and into his flesh.

The intimate contact surprised them. Rose's downward directed gaze lifted to meet his. Their eyes locked. They both gulped in air. Rose held her hastily indrawn breath, afraid to release it. He could sense her fear, hear her pulse pounding. It beat out an accompanying rhythm to his own. He noticed his own hands, one pressing into her hip and the other gripping the wing of her shoulder blade. Nose only a few inches from his, she peered at him intently, searching his face. For what, he could not fathom.

“Tell me,” he encouraged, softly.

Exhaling minty-sweet, she settled more fully onto his leg, slippery-wet where she straddled him. The increase in fluid heat amazed him. Glancing down in surprise, he recalled what this meant for her species. She was ready. He was more than ready. Why didn't she ask for what she wanted? Something wasn't working for her. What could it be?

This, he imagined, was where instinct kicked in for a human male, but he was clueless on how to proceed. And Rose seemed to be losing interest. She broke eye contact, biting on her lower lip as she returned to task. Working gently, she peeled his jumper away from his wound and over his head. Her knuckles left molten trails in their wake as his hormones prodded him again. Enthralled by the sensations she was causing, he raised his arms when prompted, offering no further resistance.

The wicked bruising on his torso brought a cry of concern to her lips. He knew from experience her nurturing response would quickly override all other considerations. Before she could turn into Florance Nightingale, he decided to push things along in the mating game. Maybe she could take a hint. He reached for the zipper of her hoodie and tugged. The zip pulled smoothly.

Rose stopped fretting and stilled. “What are you doing?” she asked, but she didn't sound particularly confused.

“It's only fair,” he told her, his gaze intersecting hers.

He had her undivided attention. She swallowed before moistening her lips to say, “But...you're hurt.”

“Told you, it's nothing,” he said. His cupped his palms around her bare shoulders, squeezing possessively, before skimming the sleeves of her hoodie down her arms. The fabric bunched at her bent elbows. Keeping eye contact, he let his fingers find their own way under her tank. “Arms up.” He saw the flaw in this plan. “No, wait down and then up. Pink off first.”

She snickered, tipping her chin as she murmured, “Do you think so?”

“Well, it's the only way, isn't it?” He reconsidered. “No, I suppose we could take it all over your head. A swift upward motion. If you'll lift your arms.”

“Done this often, have you?”

She was laughing at him. Laughing. Nine hundred years old, him. He'd once been propositioned by an Aztec princess. Cleopatra had pursued him relentlessly. “Or you can keep it on,” he huffed and sat back in the chair, arms crossing defensively as he looked away. The cold bile rose into his throat again. He glanced back at her and, without any forethought, words came spilling from him, “Why won't you kiss me?”

“Why don't I...?” She sounded flabbergasted. Well, she would be wouldn't she? Because it never even occurred to her. It wasn't like he was handsome...or a man. He narrowed his eyes to slits, glaring at her.

“Kiss me,” he finished, his tone rough. “It's a simple question, isn't it? I take you to the most romantic places.” He cut a quick glance at the spot where her thighs met his. “And it's obvious you're ready...”

“I...I...never...th..thought,” Rose stammered. “I mean...you're...” Suddenly, she blushed and straightened her knees, shifting as far away as their close quarters allowed. The pepperpot tipped over when her hip bumped into the table. “What do you mean, 'It's obvious'?”

“Do you think I don't know? About Mickey? And Jack? Do you think I'm clueless? I know you go to your room and use your vibrating latex...”

“Hey,” Rose protested. Her skin flared hot and bright red as she scrambled even further away from him. “How do you know...?”

“Please, don't insult me,” he told her. “I may not be a man by your reckoning, but I've got some idea what goes on.” He stopped himself. This wasn't going well at all. He sank back into his seat. “Might as well be furniture,” he muttered, chin to his chest. “I mean...I was right there...but you never even noticed...” He shook his head. Then, drawing a breath, he met her eye squarely. “I just want to know why. It's the ears, isn't it?”

“It's not the ears,” she said, with such gentle sincerity he almost believed her. Like a squirrel approaching a suspect treat, she returned tentatively to his side, reaching out to caress his cheek, but stopping short of contact. “I just never thought...”

He sighed and looked away, “Right, understandable.” He tapped his chest. “Alien.”

“Do you want to?”

He sputtered, before gasping in disbelief, "Do I...?" He thought she must be mocking him but saw she wasn't and broke off with a sighing groan of frustration.

She wasn't stupid. She wasn't. Obviously, he was not getting through to her. What the hell did it take? He thought of the Earth films he'd seen and took a cognitive leap. Every instinct he possessed cringed at the very thought of sexual aggression. And no interested female, human or otherwise, had ever required it of him. On the contrary, he was always the one who ducked and covered to avoid pursuit. But in Rose's time masculine dominance was still common place. Both Mickey and Jack had pursued her. Could it be she was waiting on some sign from him?

Though it went against his nature, he decided to take the initiative. Capturing her face in both hands, he slowly but firmly drew her mouth to his. She squeaked, starting in surprise. Her fingers splayed against his chest. It was all he could do to hold on through this weak resistance. But, she didn't push him away, as he'd half expected her to do, and within a few heartbeats, she'd melted into him.

Settling in his lap, she snuggled closer. It was like holding a sleepy kitten; she became delightfully pliant in his grasp. At first, she clutched at him, fingers rigid. But as she relaxed, she started kneading him, and then, at last, sent her fingertips skating over his bare skin. Her hands glided in random patterns, until she wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him to her. He adjusted his grip, stabilizing her weight as she tilted her head, lips parting. He found he rathered rather enjoyed the open-mouthed kissing. Her tongue twisted under his, stroking him.

Following her lead, again, he let his own hands roam. He combed his fingers through her hair. She had such lovely hair, soft and shiny and...chemically scented. He played with it for a time, and then traced down her spine. Hitting the speed-bump of her bunched hoodie, he remember wanting her shirts off. He wanted her naked. Breaking free of her mouth, he told her so, in a breathless, slightly apologetic, rush.

“I want you naked.”

“Yeah, okay,” she agreed between kisses. This assertive business seemed to do the trick.

She hastily stripped to her lacy bra. Then, taking charge, she held his head steady while she plundered his mouth. He let her have her way, opening obediently each time she nipped his lower lip. Again and again, she sent her tongue questing over his. The kisses were everything he'd hoped for, raw and needy. Finally, a bit of clarity. She wanted him. Good. He had just the thing for her. He ran the flat of his hand up under her skirt, savoring the creamy skin at the small of her back. She shimmied as he tugged her tights down, rocking her hips to assist in the removal.

A questioning noise at the back of her throat alerted him to a change in her mood, just as their chair started to tip. He shot his free hand to the wall, catching them before they could overbalance. The braking cost him an involuntary yelp as the pain in his side sizzled red-hot. Though restrained at the knee by her hosiery, Rose managed to spring away from him, standing, breaking contact. She had one hand pressed to her heaving chest. Her nipples had peaked, her eyes were full of starlight and her mouth looked wet and swollen.

“Oh, you're...,” she gulped, gaining enough composure to apologize, “...hurt. Sorry, I forgot. Maybe we should wait until... Blimey! What the hell is that?”

He followed the line of her wide-eyed stare to his trouser front but saw nothing amiss. “What?”

“That...?” She pointed, and then yelped, “It moved.” Backpedaling, she drew the other chair around, poised to climb up on it like a cartoon housewife confronting a mouse.

“You mean, this?” He said, casually gesturing at the enormous bulge. “It's a phallus.”

“Don't tell me that's your... Oh, God,” she appealed to the heavens, before squeezing her eyes shut and droning, fatalistically, “it's tentacles.” Her voice took on a hysterical pitch, as she went on, “My mum said it would be tentacles and I said, 'Don't be silly” but now it's...”

“Don't be silly, then,” he interrupted, brusquely. Raking her with the full force of his disappointment, he scoffed, “Tentacles? Really? That old chestnut? Your mum reads too much tabloid fiction. What would a human do with tentacles? We'd never get anywhere. Nope. It's a phallus,” he said, breaking out a broad, hopefully reassuring, smile. “Totally compatible to your species. Fourteen and a half inches.”

“Fourteen?” Rose repeated, sounding anything but reassured. He thought her eyes might fall out of their sockets if she opened them any further.

“And a half,” he said, proudly. “Cleopatra called it magnificent.”

“Yeah? Well, Cleopatra fancied snakes, didn't she?” Rose growled, stooping to drag her tights back up over her bottom.

“Asp me why,” he smirked.

Finished adjusting her clothing, Rose shot him a grimace, pained enough to sober him instantly. “Is this really the time for puns?” She snapped. He stood, willing to conceed the point, but shaking her head, she held up a palm, edging backward as she said, “I'm sorry...I just...can't.”

“Come here,” he ordered, holding out his hands. He hoped his kind-hearted expression stole all of the sting from this demand.

“No...really, we shouldn't start anything,” she protested, but her feet scuffed forward, moving her into the circle of his arms. He hugged her, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, before dropping a light kiss on her temple. After a moment or two, she returned his embrace. They stood there for a time, until her heartbeat slowed and she sighed. “It's not that I don't like you,” she murmured. ”It's...just...”

“Jack?” he guessed. Cocking an eyebrow, he leaned back far enough to look into her eyes. It crossed his mind to suggest they become a threesome. Jack would certainly be amiable to it, but Rose might consider three a crowd.

“Jack?” she repeated, clearly perplexed. Her gaze drifted to the door as she tried to make sense of what he now realized was a change of topic. She obviously hadn't been thinking about Jack.

His stomach churned but he took a breath and clarified his meaning. He had to be sure about this. “You said you loved him?”

Rose's blinked in surprise. Then, she laughed, “Oh, oh, that? No. Me and Jack?” She seemed to find the notion amusing. “No. He was ranting, delirious. Probably thought I was someone else.” The twiddle of her fingers waved Jack, and all of the Doctor's stomach complaints, away. “I was just...humoring him. No...it's...well...it's...” He waited but she was having trouble getting words out. Finally, she sighed and said, “You're hurt.”

He grinned. “You'll just have to be gentle with me,” he told her, and knew his blue eyes were sparkling as they crinkled around the edges. He'd never been so happy.

Rose, however, looked crestfallen. “About that,” she said, head bowed, eyes focused on the floor. “About being gentle...I don't think I can manage...fourteen.”

“Oh...is that it?” he said, catching on. “But that's easy to fix. Are you more of a ten, then? Or a five? Not a three? I don't mean to compare but wasn't Mickey a tad more than a three?”

“I...what?”

“The length is subject to change. What's your measure?”

It took her a moment to grasp this, when she did she said, “You can change?”

“I'm multispecies adaptive. Length. Width. Shape. Penis. Stamen. Tentacles. Articulated sponge. Whatever is called for. We morph, Time Lords. Apparently, we were quite the randy lot back in our colonial period. Why do you think so many of the intelligent species in the cosmos, including you and yours, look roughly like me?”

“I thought they all looked human.”

“Typical,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Let's call it seven inches for a start, shall we?”

“Seven?”

“My lucky number,” he told her, beaming, but then felt compelled to confess, “No, it's not. I just can't think how to work three billion four hundred and eight into this conversation without sending you scampering.”

She looked down at his trouser front. “You have a...a Swiss Army cock,” she said, wrapping her mind around the idea. When he shrugged it off, she broke into a delighted smile. With the tip of her tongue clenched lightly in her teeth, she threaded her arm into his. Cuddling close, she nodded several times as she said, “Handy, that.”

“And you know...I never truly appreciated it until just now,” he said. He shot a look at the ceiling “You still reckon there's a bed upstairs?”

She followed his gaze, considering. “Probably more than one. Bet there's a guest room and everything.”

“All of it done up in chicken print?”

“Definitely.”

He resigned himself to the disquieting prospect. “Willing to risk it?”

“I am if you are,” she said, clearly fighting to keep a straight face.

“I thought you'd never ask,” he said. Snickering, he took her hand and headed for the door, pulling her along with him. They giggled as they spooned and snogged their way across the foyer, over the body of the fallen Martyaxwar and on up the stairs.

THE END


End file.
